It's a Kind of Magic
by CT230R
Summary: Ellie thinks she may be a witch.


He likes the night. Yeah it's cold and dark outside, but in the cocoon that is their bed, under a sturdy roof and a soft woollen quilt, all behind solid _glass_ windows, there's nothing more he could ask for. The night is quiet, the night is peaceful, and the night is restful.

Usually. He's been reconsidering that, of late, especially tonight.

"Still awake, Joel?"

He cracks an eye open and sees that the reading lamp that stays on for an hour or two, so she can indulge in her preferred activity before bedtime, is still lit.

"No…" he grunts, shutting his eyes resolutely.

She takes that as a yes anyway. "I think I might be a witch."

He groans, mashing his head into his pillow. Humouring her takes energy, and he's running a tad low at the moment.

" _Joel_."

But he'd best do it anyway, because she's liable to force the issue if he doesn't do it voluntarily. And that usually involves a lot of nudging, pinching, and kicking. In that order. He blinks, struggling to open his eyes. "And how'd you figure that?" he asks, speaking more to his pillow than her.

"Well," she waves the book in her hand. "For a start, I could've sworn I left this downstairs at dinner. I don't remember bringing this up, but…here it was, lying here at bedtime."

"Ugh," he interrupts, grunting as he flips over onto his back. "Right, go on."

"And then in the afternoon, when I got back, I thought about getting some coffee going, but I couldn't find it. Had to search high and low, and it was buried all the way back in the cabinet."

"Caffeine past noon's a bad idea, anyway."

"I was drained," she explains. "But I know, right? It was almost like a message."

He stifles the snort rising up his throat. " _Right_."

She ignores his skepticism. "And I wouldn't have paid that any attention, but this morning, it started pouring right when we were halfway to the dam–"

"Told Tommy it was pointless tryin' to head out today."

She brushes his vindication aside. "Not the point. So we were caught out in the open, and I _really_ don't remember packing my raincoat in, but there it was, in my backpack!"

"Weren't you lucky," he yawns.

"Don't patronize me, Miller."

"Sorry, boss," he mumbles lazily. "But explain it to me, how's all this make you a witch?"

She sighs, as if he's being incredibly obtuse. "It's just how things keep showing up right when I need them, or when I've only just thought about them."

A second of silence passes before he can continue. "And out of all the possible explanations, you've concluded that it _must_ be magic?"

"What else could it be?"

And he can't hold back this snort. "You must've done all that sometime, but just don't remember."

"That makes _no_ sense whatsoever."

"Happens with age. Time sure is a cruel mistress," he laments.

"To you, yeah," she scoffs. "I'm in the prime of my life here!"

"It'll happen to you too," he drawls, mock-warningly. Actual-warningly, in fact. "Look, it's real simple. Ain't no one remembers each minute of the day exactly. And definitely not every minor chore. Tell me, what'd you do right after breakfast today before headin' out?"

She pauses as she scrabbles for the (lost) memory, making his point.

He grins. To sleep now, perchance.

"Okay," she concedes.

He sighs. Perchance not, because she doesn't do conceding, not really. He eyes the book in her hand.

"Disappointed that you're a…what's it, 'mugger'?"

"It's 'muggle', you hick," she corrects, with a look of unfiltered disdain. "Fine, stupid idea. Just thought it would've been fuckin' cool to be all magical…"

Her voice trails off, and he recognizes that the disappointment flashing above her freckles is actually _sincere._ And even if he's a little slow on the uptake, he finally realizes the whole point of this conversation – that that disappointment's not merely the childish musings of a woman who should already be _well_ past such foolishness already (though god knows she ain't).

No, it's a thing that, though far back in the memory now, stems from a much deeper, much more regretful disappointment. She's resolved it with him long ago – _he's_ resolved it with himself – but she's never quite done so with _herself_. There's only so much he can do about that, and it does kill him that he can't do more. It's not a pretty thing; it's an ugly, terrifying thing that's prone to rear itself now and again.

But hell to the no if that's happening tonight, on his watch.

He rolls over to face her, catches those green eyes that are partly shielded by the shadows of the light. She lowers her book and turns, allowing the soft yellow glows to illuminate that red hair spilling over her shoulders, and he holds her gaze for a moment. It could be for a minute, or two, perhaps ten for all it feels like.

She cracks first (as she _always_ does…never mind, he digresses). "What, asshole?" she snaps, giggling.

"You are," he grins, "to me."

Bad idea, son, because he finds out, for the very first time after all his years, how it feels to be smacked face-on with a book. Not that he was itching to find out. At least it's a paperback.

"Go to sleep, old man."

He could almost squeal from the relief (now there's an image), but he settles for an exhausted groan – he's very happy to comply.

"Yes, ma'am."

* * *

He likes the morning. Yeah it takes a while to get the old engine going, but with golden beams coming in through the windows, lighting up a blue sky with not a cloud in sight, there's nothing more he could ask for. The morning is fresh, the morning is tranquil, and the morning is rejuvenating.

Usually. He's been reconsidering that, of late, especially today.

He runs his palm over his face as he ponders the generator that's running at full chat beside him. How's it possible for something that small to make that much noise? How could she be even getting enough _air_ while she's at it? He grunts when he notices that her leg has, without any provocation on his part, invaded sometime over the course of the past evening. He should resist this brutish aggression; it is his imperative duty, his sovereign right.

He sighs as he ever so _gently_ lifts the limb that's tinier than the arm he's using. He pauses and hesitates, but is glad to see that she's still going full steam ahead. Then he shifts his weight off the mattress ever so _lightly,_ and replaces it ever so _carefully._ As he steps off (ever so _quietly)_ towards the door, he notices that her book is now lying on the floor, pages sprawled out. Picking it up, he glances at the cover.

Christ, she's only on the third one – he's not sure how much more of this he can take, goddamn Maria for giving her that precious goddamned boxset. Grumbling, he exits, heads down the stairs, and drops the goddamned book off at the goddamned dining table where she can goddamned read it while having goddamned breakfast.

But the weather _is_ lovely today, he confirms with some relief as he looks out the kitchen window. Won't have to worry about her getting wet, or cold, not with all that sun. Won't need to pack an extra layer for her, nor a raincoat.

So, next up are the morning rituals. Not the hygiene stuff – those can wait. Oh, no, no, foremost is that most sacred observance of all. He steps to the cabinet, reaches for the can, and dispenses very precisely all that is strictly necessary into the percolator's chamber. And that reminds him, actually. After placing the pot onto the stove, he considers the possible locations where he could store said can. The kitchen's gone, he'll need a better place. Bathroom? That's risky, what with all that moisture, and that also rules out under the sink. Bedroom? Nah, she could still find it...

Nothing personal, just business. But he sighs; it's way too early in the daylight to be aching his head like this, and certainly before the first cup. Happily, the percolator works briskly, and he's soon able to pour the exalted black gold into his mug. At once his senses awaken, even from the mere scent, even before the first sip.

"Witch, my ass," he grumbles, toasting himself.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading, as always!**


End file.
